


Waiting room B

by Anonymous



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 17:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15248703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: On the day of his audition for season 53, Saihara somehow gets his heart stolen by some snooty rich kid with an attitude problem.(I opted for a more lighthearted take on their pre-game personalities! Saihara is a big nerd and Ouma is. Well. Yeah)





	Waiting room B

 

In waiting room B, two boys conversed.

 

"So, Ouma-kun--"

 

"Nope!"

 

Saihara crossed his eyes at the sudden, impudent finger firmly shushing his lips, then frowned at its equally impudent owner.

 

"Your Highness or Your Majesty, please. I'll accept Ouma-sama too, but that's pushing it." The boy smiling genially at him was one of those late bloomers, the kind who had to show ID to about ten different employees before they were convinced that he wasn't just a particularly sly middle school student. Saihara himself wasn't too sure he trusted this Ouma's proclaimed age of 18; it seemed far too convenient, and he was quite certain that nobody over twelve acted this way.

 

He shook Ouma off, a disgruntled crinkle decorating the space in between his eyebrows. "I don't--"

 

"Try again, Saihara-chan! I'm going easy on you since we just met, but I don't have a lot of patience for people who don't address me correctly. Go ahead now, loud and clear. _So, Your Highness..._ " Ouma waved for Saihara to speak, looking every bit as impatient as he said he was.

 

"Urgh..." Saihara tugged on his cap. What a troublesome guy. "Your...Highness..."

 

"Nope!" Saihara flinched. "Say it firmly. Say it with confidence! Ugh, where are you manners? Try again."

 

"Your Highness..."

 

" _Y-y-your Hiiiiighnessssss_ ," Ouma lampooned, standing pigeon-toed and wilting in on himself in a what was obviously a caricature of Saihara.

 

"Your--"

 

"Nope!" Ouma spat out the gum that he'd been chewing obnoxiously, flinging it over his shoulder like he expected someone to catch it and dispose of it for him. It was a deep, bright orange, clearly not yet shorn of its flavor. Saihara could only frown in startled silence as Ouma unwrapped two fresh sticks of gum and stuck them in his mouth carelessly. "Louder! Sit up straight. I hate it when my subjects slouch. Try again."

 

" _Your Highness,_ " Saihara gritted out, feeling his temper wearing thin.

 

" _There_ we go!" Ouma cheered, kicking his legs. "Now, my dearest Saihara-chan, what did you want to ask your benevolent superior?"

 

Shit, what was he even going to ask before all that? "What...school...do you go to..." Saihara managed, his irritation subsiding somewhat under the pressure of his habitual social ineptitude.

 

Ouma blew a shockingly blue bubble and popped it. "Imperial Capital's Imperial High School!" he chirped. "Our uniforms are way cooler than this shabby thing. Almost makes my skin crawl, this...civilian fabric," he added, shuddering.

 

So he went to the Imperial. Not surprising at all, Saihara thought. The only thing that seemed off was the scratchy traditional gakuran, and that had been explained away. Yeah, Ouma seemed like he'd look at home in the Imperial's crisp, Western-styled vest and blazer. Apparently the school had even commissioned a well-known designer for their iconic look. To think what kind of money this runt of a boy came from...

 

Ouma tucked a silky lock of soft black hair behind his ear, sliding a pale hand down the length of it as if to show off its royal purple tips. He stuffed another stick of gum into his mouth and the next bubble he blew was marbled with pink. "Which lowly commoner school does Saihara-chan attend?"

 

Saihara felt that flippant smile burning into him from a desk away and began counting the tiles on the floor. "Spring Field."

 

"Ooh! The charter school? My dad bought all your electronics for you 'cause I told him to. Yep, he paid for all those shiny laptops you got last year. You should thank me."

 

"Wha--I--Thank you?"

 

"Oh gosh, it's nothing!" Ouma blushed, humbly hiding his face. Yet a split second later, he was grinning impishly again. "It's really nothing, 'cause I lied. My dad's friend's grandpa did that. Really charitable guy," he remarked, checking the perfectly manicured nails of one slender hand. Before Saihara had a chance to respond, Ouma was leaning in towards him, big innocent eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What's a Spring Fielder doing here, auditioning for Danganronpa? If you get callbacks you'll have to miss school, and you'll tank your GPA."

 

For an Imperial student, Ouma was oddly knowledgeable about "commoner" education. He was even familiar with Spring Field Academy's reputation for cutthroat academic competition. Saihara had to admit that his curiosity was piqued too. "I...well...yeah, but I think it's a risk I'm willing to take."

 

"Oh?"

 

"It's...been my lifelong dream to be on Danganronpa. I've watched it ever since I was little, and I've won several, ah, accolades for my survival strategies and game analyses. Not to toot my own horn or anything," he sputtered when Ouma smirked. "Uh, that's it, I guess. It's now or never, you know?" That explanation...sucked. He made himself a mental note to embellish it significantly during his audition.

 

"I see." Ouma blew another bubble, this one a muddy shade of purple from the blue and pink mixing together. It popped loudly. "Yet another fanboy with a history. _And_ you're a mega nerd. Figures." He leaned back in his chair, looking utterly dismissive of Saihara's entire presence. "Good luck standing out from the crowd."

 

"Thanks." It came out more terse than he had intended it to. Ouma arched an eyebrow.

 

God, what a smug prick.

 

"What's a rich kid like you doing here?" he found himself asking, more or less conversationally, but with the unfortunate undercurrent of a budding grudge against this entitled brat who had simply rolled his eyes at over a decade of wholesome dedication to Danganronpa. People like Ouma wouldn't understand. People who had it all wouldn't understand the need to be on Danganronpa at all.

 

Ouma winked at him, reached into an unseen crevice of the uniform that now looked so out of place on his impeccably maintained body, and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. He flipped it open, revealing an extravagantly monogrammed header and the chickenscratch handwriting of either a doctor or a five-year-old occupying the rest of the sheet. Saihara almost snorted.

 

"What's that?"

 

"A magical spell to give my dear old mother an aneurysm." Ouma produced a pen out of nowhere, and of course it was some ostentatious thing made of metal and inscribed with his dad's company name or whatever the hell was the source of his wealth. He put pen to paper, scribbling a flying checkmark on what Saihara realized was a to-do list.

 

Saihara couldn't hold it in. "So you're spoiled _and_ ungrateful."

 

"H-Huh?" It seemed like he'd struck a nerve. Ouma's bottom lip wobbled. "I'm not--don't say--" Saihara shrank back in alarm as Ouma's eyes started to water with fat teardrops. "I-I'm not spoiled! I love my mommy very much! Take it back!" Ouma squealed, on the verge of bawling.

 

"Hey, wha--calm down!" Saihara hissed. What was this guy's deal? Was he really that much of a manchild? He couldn't be, right?

 

"M-Meanie Saihara-chan! I'm gonna, I'm gonna tell my dad about this and he'll, he'll--" At that moment, a loud, electronic chirruping noise interrupted them, and Saihara sagged with relief. Ouma retrieved his phone. "Hey mom!" And his tears had completely evaporated over the span of what, two seconds? Saihara could only stare disbelievingly at this strange, strange person. "Yeah, yeah. Look, I'm at tea with the Miyamura representatives so--I'm wearing the blue suit. What? I--Yeah, so what, I poured soda on her cocktail dress. Big deal. Buy her a new one if you care so much."

 

Wait a minute. Something about this sounded more familiar than it should.

 

"I know! I'm not a little kid, geez!" Ouma started to jiggle his leg and chew his gum at the same pace, obviously frustrated. "Moooooom, I knoooooow. I still don't wanna do it. It's--yeah, I'm wearing the--I did. I thought you said the brown ones were--okay, fine. Fine." He only grew more agitated as the conversation went on. "Huh? I just chose something and went with it, okay? Mom. No, I didn't touch your stupid essential oils. No. No! It smells like tree farts and everyone knows you designed it. I know, I know, I get it, you're proud of your line, you've been bragging about it for--okay, fine, bye. Bye-bye. See you later, love you."

 

At this point, Saihara had figured out what exactly it was that had been bothering him. His eyes were as wide as saucers when Ouma turned back towards him after shoving his phone back into his pocket.

 

"Hold on, aren't you..." Ouma's mouth scrunched up into a pained smile. It looked like he'd been expecting this for a while. "Your mom's Ouma _Mariko_?" Saihara whispered, amazed.

 

"Yeah, that's the hag's name."

 

So he _had_ seen Ouma before. He had seen Ouma in a blisteringly white tuxedo under the bright morning sun, addressing the press with a measured voice more robot than human. He had seen Ouma standing silently next to his mother on television, his face frozen into a vacant smile that stretched slightly every time the audience decided it was time to laugh. "You look...smaller in person," Saihara blurted.

 

"She knows how to choose my clothes," Ouma explained, scowling. He eyed Saihara's face. "So are you gonna hump me or what?"

 

Saihara blinked, a reddish flush rising to his cheeks. "Oh, I--Ah, sorry." He shook his head, drawing in on himself like a turtle. "That was...insensitive, staring at you like that." He glanced over at Ouma, who still looked unimpressed. "I-I mean, I get it."

 

"Get what?"

 

"Well, I sort of get it. Why that would make you wanna do Danganronpa, I guess."

 

"Oh, someone finally gets me and my struggles up here at the pinnacle of our modern world!" Ouma cried mockingly, waving his arms. "I'm really indebted to you now. Name your price, Saihara-chan. A hundred grand? A Lamborghini? An autographed photo of my mom's cleavage window?"

 

"Jesus," Saihara muttered.

 

"That's something I _can't_ buy," Ouma snapped.

 

They stewed in surly silence after that, picking at their phones, deliberately turned away from each other. About an hour passed before there was a knock at their door.

 

"Ouma Kokichi?"

 

"That's me," Ouma called, rising from his seat.

 

"I'll escort you to room 1002 for the auditions," the unseen speaker stated.

 

Ouma was halfway to the door when he stopped in his tracks. "Sorry, just a moment. I'll be quick." The person who'd come to retrieve him let out a small noise of assent.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Saihara spotted Ouma shuffling nearer, that infernal to-do list clutched in his too-perfect hand.

 

"Heads up, Saihara-chan."

 

Just like that, Saihara found himself being kissed tenderly on the lips by Ouma Mariko's son. Ouma Mariko's oddball son who smelled not like tree farts but like citrus and cardamom and a smoky hint of neroli or whatever the hell else they put in those squarish bottles of cologne that go for a kidney a pop, who could start and stop crying on command like some sort of demon, whose skin was softer than clouds looked.

 

This perfect creature pulled away, and Saihara just managed to register the boyish handsomeness of his face. There was a dash of pink across his cheeks, and a wisp of his hair had taken a firm seat over the bridge of his nose. It was a good look on him.

 

"You're sweaty," Ouma remarked. Saihara remained speechless as Ouma straightened up and ticked off the last item on his list. "Man, she'd really let me have it if I went home smelling like you."

 

Whether it was an insult or an innuendo, it turned Saihara's face bright red. Pleased with this result, Ouma leaned in for one last attack. "Good luck, commoner," he murmured right into Saihara's ear, the fake fruit scent of the gum he'd been chewing washing through the air.

 

It was only after auditioning and returning home that Saihara finally acknowledged that he'd been unceremoniously struck by Cupid's arrow.

 

God damn it, Ouma.

 

 


End file.
